“Okay,” I said hesitantly, “that sounds promising. Just to check, is this pop-up happening in Aberystwyth?”

“Luc, I find it offensive the way you assume I only know about things in Wales. It’s happening in Islington. Although she is from Aberystwyth.”

“And she’s definitely vegan? Not, like, a volcanologist or a veterinarian?”

“I’m finding your lack of confidence a little bit hurtful, Luc.” He did, in fact, look fairly hurt. “We do have vegans in Wales. And I don’t just mean the sheep.”

“Sorry.”

“That last bit was a joke. I’m allowed to make it because I’m from Wales. And so you can laugh.”

The moment, such as it had ever been, had very much passed. But he was doing me a favour—maybe—so I forced out a wheezing noise I hoped sounded moderately amused.

“But, no,” Rhys went on defensively, “she’s definitely vegan. I remember because she used to be vegetarian but then she explained that she felt that it wasn’t ethically defensible to be vegetarian but not vegan owing to the complex interdependence of animal exploitation in industrialised farming. For example, Luc, did you know that there are two types of chickens, one for laying eggs, and one for eating, and because we only need the girl chickens for the eggs, the boy egg chickens just get thrown in a big blender and used for cat food?”

“Um. I didn’t know that. Thank you for ruining eggs for me.”

“Yeah but they’re brilliant with soldiers, though, aren’t they?”

As in most conversations with Rhys Jones Bowen, I really wasn’t sure how we’d got here. “Anyway, back to you saving my vegan bacon substitute. This Bronwyn who used to be a vegetarian from Aberystwyth and is now a vegan in Islington, is she…how do I put this…actually any good?”

He scratched absently at his beard. “She won the South Wales Echo Food and Drink Award a couple of years back. Though she did marry an Englishwoman so her taste is questionable.”

“Wait. Bronwyn’s a lesbian?”

“It’d be a bit strange of her to marry a woman if she wasn’t.”

“No, I just kind of assumed all your friends would be more…”

“That’s quite homophobic of you, Luc, if you don’t mind my saying.” He climbed to his feet and ambled back into the corridor, pausing on the threshold to give me a stern look. “You’re not the only gay in the village, you know.”

Well, that was me told.

* * *

That evening, as I was pushing the mess around my flat like a half-arsed Sisyphus, I got a text and an attachment from Oliver. And was briefly really excited until I found myself staring into the kindly, twinkly eyes of the late Sir Richard Attenborough.

Wtf is this? I sent back.

A dick pic.

You are not funny, I told him, laughing. And I definitely don’t miss you now

A few minutes later: I’m glad you chose to reach out to your father.

I’m not

I can see you’re handling this well.

I’m insecure. Tell me how mature I’m being

I think—and somehow I could hear him like a voice-over—genuinely mature people don’t demand praise for being mature.

Baby steps, I typed. Praise me anyway

You’re being very mature and I’m very impressed.

Was that your sarcastic voice? I read that in your sarcastic voice

I am actually proud of you. I just thought it would sound patronising to say it.

You must have noticed I have zero self-respect

A pause. I don’t think that’s true. I think you’ve just forgotten where you put it.

Well you’ve seen my flat

Normally we’d wrap up here, with him saying something semi-nice to me and me not knowing how to cope with it. But tonight for some reason I wasn’t quite ready to let go.

I know you can’t talk about it blah blah blah. But you okay? Work okay? Everything okay?

Wow. Look at me playing it cool. Like a fucking cucumber.

There was a longer-than-average Oliver pause.

Oh fuck, I’d pushed it too far. Or he’d fallen asleep.

Yes, he said finally. I’m just not used to

He left that half sentence hanging for a really long time. Then: Sorry. I pressed Send too early.

Okay, he was not getting away with that. I’d like the second half please

I didn’t mean to send the first half.

Well. You have. And as five-word phrases go I’M JUST NOT USED TO is nearly as bad as WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT

Sorry. Sorry.

OLIVER!!!

I’m just not used to having something in my life that’s as important to me as my job.

I typed out You’re really taking this fake boyfriend business seriously aren’t you? But didn’t have the heart to send it. Instead, I tried, What about your gazillion other relationships?

They were different. And, while my thumb was midswipe, By the way, I think we should have lunch tomorrow.

And again, before I could answer: I mean if it’s agreeable.

I’m just very aware the aim of this exercise was to generate positive publicity for you.

Which we can’t if we aren’t seen in public.

So we have lunch

As I suggested

In my other text.

So he’d panicked then.

As a world-class panicker, I was well-placed to read the signs. There were a bunch of things I could have done. I could have teased him or pressed him or fucked with him. But none of them seemed right just then. So I…I let it go. That sounds great, I sent, but what about your case?

If you’d be so good as to bring me something. A wrap or something. I thought we could eat it on a bench.

Play your cards right I’ll get you a packet of crisps to go with it

That won’t be necessary, thank you. A pause. You’re teasing me, aren’t you?

I guess you’ll find out tomorrow

Meet me by the Gladstone statue at 1. We’ll go somewhere nice and photographable.

God he was…thoughtful. And in whatever the texting equivalent to silence was that followed his last message, I sat on my sofa with my knees tucked under my chin, my brain churning restlessly. It was that weird space where I didn’t actually know what I was thinking, only that thinking was kind of happening. But afterwards there came this calm, like fine rain on a too-hot day.